Though I know it to be a blessing,
there's solemnity in this sound.
Surrounding this house,
undermining the foundations of memories of cold nights
in leaking tents when the cold could not be kept
from the quilting of musky sleepy bodies bound in
musty sleeping bags, and the shivering ensues, soul-quaking,
conjuring images of those who
find kinship under bridges, the freeway overpasses...
edging their ground sheets from the paths of icy rivulets,
iridescent with motor oil...
Survive tonight and find the high ground is cleaner...
winter rye greener,
but the lowlands will bear the shameful flotsam...
debris of our careless lives left behind to be carried
on the shivering shoulders of muddy rain-flooded creeks.
So fall, rain.
Ahead lie dryer days and summer's oven-baked earth
cracking open like the dark gaps that grew between me and you.